


Deal Me In

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom!Eames, Community: i_reversebang, Developing Relationship, Face-Fucking, First Time, Inception Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Intercrural Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 09:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2577281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames found himself resenting Arthur: his surprisingly deep, patronizing voice; his dark curls; his square little judgmental glasses; his five-o'clock shadow; his jeans and trainers and plaid shirts; his confounded parka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deal Me In

**Author's Note:**

> _"What the winner don’t know, a gambler understands" -"Straight On," Wilson/Wilson/Ennis_
> 
>  
> 
> For Inception Reverse Bang. [Artwork by the-secretsigns](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2603681)! Beta'd by [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno).

Although they were only a few days into this job, truth be told, Eames didn’t have the most favorable opinion of the Cobbs’ point.

Oh, Arthur was clever. Brilliant, even, at times. Decisive, quick. But he was blunt, abrupt, lacking in ability to discern and express nuance, and condescending. He was forever looking at Eames in stern admonishment from behind his glasses, reserving his slow, wry little smiles for Mal and Dom, and for some reason, he always wore a parka. It even had elbow patches, toggle closures, and a fur-lined hood. 

(Granted, they were in the northeastern United States, and it was quite cold; the warehouse they were using as a base wasn’t heated, after all. But really, this was ridiculous. He’d never once seen Arthur out of the parka.)

If he were being really honest with himself, which hardly ever happened for long, he knew this friction with Arthur was about his ego. He’d brought a list of ideas and stacks of research and Arthur had criticized it all, sparing nothing for Eames’ feelings, nor expressing any respect for Eames’ unique skills. They’d been at each others’ throats right off. Eames wasn’t used to being shot down or second-guessed, and had in fact gotten rather too used to having his ideas accepted. Arthur’s critiques cut him -- especially because Arthur was often right, or at least had a good point. 

It wasn’t any fun realizing he needed to shape up a bit and stop coasting on his reputation, and he found himself resenting Arthur: his surprisingly deep, patronizing voice; his dark curls; his square little judgmental glasses; his five-o'clock shadow; his jeans and trainers and plaid shirts; his confounded parka. 

Despite his somewhat unkempt appearance, however, Arthur always had perfect posture, likely a remnant of his time in the military. And despite his clothing, his stride was that of a model, on a perpetual catwalk, studied grace. It just made him all the more confounding.

Mal and Cobb were going to meet with the client. Cobb had instructed him and Arthur to go under and practice for a bit; Eames would practice his forge and Arthur supply the architecture. For the actual job, he’d be helping Dom extract, but he was a perfectly capable architect and could build the setting Eames needed to practice. For their purposes, it would be Arthur’s dream, but Eames’ subconscious. 

In the dream, Eames found himself walking down a low-ceilinged hallway toward an expansive hotel lobby, the one they’d been working with before, recreated by Arthur. Eames’ subconscious was gradually peopling the hotel, and Eames shifted into his forge, the persona of an older man, a doctor in town for a conference, wearing a suit and a badge and carrying a briefcase. He ran through his scenario, perfecting the doctor’s mannerisms, the sound of his voice, his gait. After running it through twice, he shifted back to his topside form and went looking for Arthur.

He wasn’t difficult to find. Arthur was in front of the lobby’s fountain, making the water spout in impossible directions, a look of concentration on his face. Eames saw that he’d added staircases to nowhere, upside down from the ceiling, leading back to themselves. Hands in his parka pockets, Arthur stood looking up, adjusting the stairs, making more of them, the fountains spouting higher. 

It was an interesting sight in the almost Brutalist layout of the lobby, typical of the Cobbs, who were nearly Soviet in their adherence to drab, gray slabs of concrete. Which was puzzling, given how stylish Mal was. Eames figured that it was something to do with Dom’s taste, and Mal was indulging him. In any case, he had to admit Brutalism was certainly easier to create in a dreamscape than, say, Rococo. Just as well. Now that he thought about it, Arthur’s version of the Cobb’s lobby was somehow warmer and more organic than theirs; the lighting, perhaps? 

Arthur didn’t seem to realize Eames was there, and Eames had the chance to watch him. Despite everything, he had to admit Arthur was attractive. Things went terribly every time he developed interest in his dreamshare co-workers, but this was Arthur, after all, and as far as Eames was concerned, he was too much of a prat for this to go any further than a vague acknowledgement to himself that Arthur was attractive. One of Eames’ favorite types just happened to be intelligent, slim, and dark-haired, that was all.

Eames ambled closer, watching a stream of water that was defying gravity. Taking in the overall picture, he remarked, “Lovely.”

Arthur started, looked at him, and smiled. It was the first time Arthur had actually smiled at him. It was a warm, dimpled smile, and Eames briefly smiled back. He tried to remember if this was the first genuinely amiable encounter between them, and with some surprise realized that it was.

The moment was over as quickly as it began. Arthur turned back to his architecture and gradually brought down the flow of water, turned the stairways about and stacked them onto each other, and melded everything into the walls of the lobby. “All done?” he asked Eames.

“Yes. I’m satisfied so far, but of course we’ll need to run through with the entire team later.”

“Of course.”

Arthur stood looking at him, and ran a long-fingered hand through his dark waves of hair. He raised a brow, and Eames realized he was expecting him to say something. So he did.

“Why do you always wear that parka?” 

Arthur grinned. “It’s comfortable.”

Well, that was that. Eames nodded. The music started up in the corners of the lobby, and they woke up.

\-------

They all went under again later, once Mal and Dom were back, with Arthur playing his intended role of unassuming-looking hotel guest who was supposed to bump into the mark (who would be talking to his colleague, played by Eames) whilst coming around a corner, thus causing his papers to tumble to the ground. Dom would help him pick them up, and in the process covertly gather information from them. Relatively easy job. Nevertheless, they ran through the setup several times.

Eames found himself glancing over at Arthur a bit more. With logistics sorted and things running smoothly, Arthur was more relaxed, his expression almost serene as they waited to wake up. Soon Eames could just faintly hear the music starting, and then Arthur turned slightly and caught him looking. They locked eyes. Eames gave a slight, slow nod, casual. Arthur blinked, and nodded back. The music swelled.

During the briefing, Eames avoided looking at Arthur, while trying not to appear as though he was avoiding looking at him. As it was getting late, they soon broke for the day. 

Eames wandered back to his hotel room, got bored there, and went to a bar, where he picked up a young bloke. The sex was entertaining enough to distract him from the thoughts beginning to creep into the back of his mind -- thoughts about Arthur -- but Eames had no interest in the lad’s spending the night in his room, and said he had to get up early. The bloke understood and was gone, no harm done. Eames lay in bed wondering what Arthur looked like out of that damned parka, and eventually fell asleep.

In the shower the next morning, he let himself have a wank over it. Arthur was probably leanly muscled, trim and beautiful. Perhaps a bit hairy here and there. Under that parka and those jeans and plaid shirts. Perhaps he didn’t wear underwear. 

Drying off, he realized he’d never wondered before what Arthur was like in bed. It hadn’t occurred to him to think about it.

Was he submissive, sweet, pliable? Doubtful -- although people could surprise you. Maybe he was, sometimes. More likely he was blunt and commanding, unexpectedly forceful. Oh, that was more Eames’ speed -- he could almost hear Arthur growling filthy things in his low voice. Sweeping back that dark hair to glare at Eames. He’d better drop this line of thought or he might as well get in the shower again, and there really wasn’t time for all this wanking. He pushed the notions from his mind for the time being.

\-------

The job went off without a hitch. Eames cashed out, said his casual goodbyes, and left. When next he heard from the Cobbs, it was in London, and that morning they’d made a deal with a wealthy client. They wanted to meet with Eames to see if he would be interested.

He walked into the posh restaurant wondering if they’d made Arthur leave, or taken his parka and insisted he wear a loaned dinner jacket instead. He muffled a laugh, then caught sight of Mal waving him over. There was a third person at their table, someone unfamiliar to Eames -- Oh. It was Arthur.

Arthur’s curls were slicked back severely, and he was clean-shaven. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. The parka was nowhere in sight; instead, he had a jacket draped over the back of the chair. He was wearing a striped dress shirt, perfectly tailored to his narrow shoulders, and a patterned tie. Eames stared, blinked, recovered.

“Arthur,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too dazed. He nodded. 

Arthur nodded back. “Eames.” He looked faintly amused; he must have been laughing at Eames’ being startled by his appearance.

Mal had no doubt caught this little interplay. “We sometimes clean Arthur up a bit before we talk to clients,” she told Eames, her voice like honey.

“Indeed,” Eames said. The waiter approached, and Eames concentrated on deciding what he wanted to eat.

The Cobbs explained the job; Eames asked questions and weighed the answers. At some point, Arthur interjected to further explain a point (condescendingly), but Eames was distracted by the discovery that he’d rolled up his sleeves. He’d never seen Arthur’s forearms before, and his wrists were usually hidden by the parka. 

Eames swallowed. It was absurd, but he’d never been so affected by the sight of forearms before. Posh restaurant or not, Arthur was resting his elbows on the table, practically taunting Eames with his arms. They were leanly muscled, with the perfect amount of hair, and he had a narrow scar about three inches long on his right arm. Eames wanted to touch it.

All right, he was getting ridiculous.

Eames accepted the job. 

As Mal was tired, the Cobbs departed early for their hotel. Arthur, however, appeared to be in no hurry to leave. He ordered an Irish coffee; Eames didn’t want anything further, but he decided to stick around. To keep Arthur company.

“I think she’s pregnant,” Arthur mused.

“Yes, very likely. She’s got a rosiness to her cheeks, and she’s not usually tired enough to leave dinner early. Let’s hope it doesn’t complicate the job.”

Arthur shrugged. “She’s not even really showing.”

“True, but that’s not quite what I mean. There’s little evidence of how and whether fetuses are affected by Somnacin. Tell me, Arthur, do you miss your parka?”

Arthur started, opened his mouth, then closed it into a thin line, brow furrowing. 

“I’m only teasing. You look fetching out of it, you know.”

“That was the point.”

“To look fetching?”

“No. Yes. No, to just… look professional.” Arthur’s ears turned pink. With his hair like this, Eames was able to better appreciate the way Arthur’s ears stuck out and yet did so almost elegantly.

“You clean up nicely,” Eames commented, giving Arthur the once over, at least as much as he could with a table between them.

There was a little patch of pink on Arthur’s cheeks now. He said, wry, “So you only find me attractive when I look completely different.” But there were dimples in those cheeks.

Eames raised a brow. “That’s your whiskey talking, I’d wager.”

“Answer the question, Mr. Eames.” The dimples deepened.

“I wasn’t asked a question. It seems you’re stating my feelings for me.”

Arthur shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

“You look very nice when you’re done up professionally, something I’m sure you’re well aware of. That doesn’t mean I don’t find you attractive, generally speaking.”

Arthur grinned into his coffee. Eames cleared his throat. “Well, I think I ought to be going,” he said, checking his watch. Standing, he took out his money clip and peeled off a few bills, putting them on the table.

“Good night, Arthur,” he said, a touch formally, giving him a slight nod. 

Arthur looked up at him, eyes dark with promise, stopping Eames in his tracks. “Good night, Mr. Eames,” he murmured. 

Eames hesitated for just a second too long. Arthur grinned again, eyes alight with merriment and triumph. Eames affected a bored expression and sauntered out of the restaurant, casual as you please.

\-------

Several days later, when the preliminary aspects of the job were to start, they met in an unused office space. Arthur was back to his usual look, glasses, parka, trainers, and all. Only now he knew Eames found him attractive, and it was making him insufferably, wordlessly smug.

Well, that was fine.

Eames leaned back in his chair, legs spread, arms resting casually on the armrests as Arthur briefed them on the latest research from the client. The PASIV lay on a table behind Arthur; he had taken it apart for maintenance. Eames watched Arthur calmly, meeting his gaze with what he thought was a faintly challenging air, and at one point pressed the end of a pen against the corner of his mouth. 

Arthur watched him worry it, move it gradually toward the middle of his mouth, and gently close his teeth on the end. Eames tried to look as serious and thoughtful as he possibly could, watching Arthur’s face go slightly pink. 

He put the hand with the pen down, and then shifted to bite idly at the tip of his thumb on his other hand. Occasionally pausing to direct questions at Arthur, he continued to worry his thumb and rub his lips, seemingly absently. Every so often, he sucked on just the tip of his thumb. 

Arthur’s ears were red by now. He adjusted his glasses and smoothed his curls, and passed Cobb his folder of information before turning back to resume his dismantling and maintaining of the PASIV. 

The group broke so that Dom could make a phone call and Mal could go to the loo. Eames got up to stand next to Arthur, ostensibly to watch him work on the PASIV. “You seemed a bit flushed just now, Arthur. Perhaps you ought to take that parka off.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, fiddling with disconnecting a tube.

“Suit yourself,” Eames said lightly, striding off to look out the window. He decided that tonight he was absolutely going to get Arthur out of that damned parka.

When Dom came back, he decided to end their meeting for the day. They would reconvene tomorrow morning.

The Cobbs had left and Eames was putting his jacket on. He sauntered over to where Arthur was still working on the PASIV; he’d be the one to lock up, as was often the case. “Good night, Arthur.”

Arthur looked up at him and adjusted his glasses. “Got any dinner plans?”

Eames blinked. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

Arthur shrugged. “If you’re available.”

Eames hummed, and pretending to consider. “I suppose….” Before Arthur could say anything, he continued. “There’s an all right restaurant in the lobby of my hotel, you could meet me there. When you’re done here.” He gestured vaguely at the PASIV.

“I suppose I could,” Arthur agreed, sounding wry.

“Do wear that parka,” Eames said with a wink, turning to leave. He could just hear Arthur’s soft chuckle.

\-------

Eames lay across his bed, reading, until he received a text from Arthur indicating he was downstairs. _Get a table_ , he replied, and rather took his time making his way to the restaurant.

Arthur, from the looks of him, had come here directly from putting the PASIV back together. Eames smothered a grin. “Arthur,” he said, with a brief nod, taking his seat.

“Eames,” Arthur replied. Eames realized he’d half-stood at Eames’ approach.

They sat looking at each other for some moments. Arthur interlaced his fingers and leaned forward. “I didn’t ask you to dinner tonight for job-related reasons.”

Eames sat back a little, and smiled slowly. “I rather thought you hadn’t.”

“Okay. Just so we’re on the same page.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Eames could see the server approaching from the other side of the dining room. “Arthur,” he said, “what if we skipped the whole dinner thing and went upstairs to my room?”

Arthur looked at him, and then stood up. “Let’s go. We can order room service later.” Arthur, always thinking ahead.

Eames stood up as well, and led the way to the lobby. He could see the server slowing his walk and shrugging out of the corner of his eye.

The lift bank was almost empty but for a tired-looking businessman. Arthur stood with his hands in his parka pockets as Eames pressed the Up button, then ambled back to Arthur’s side to wait patiently, just barely brushing Arthur’s arm with his own. Arthur was very still, very casual. Eames acted as bored as he could manage, channeling his nervous energy into the little performance, jangling his pocket contents and shuffling his feet a bit, biting his lip, exhaling his mild frustration at the slowness of the lift’s arrival.

The three of them got into the lift, and Eames gave the businessman a brief smile and nod. His face was rather blank, tired. He exited at the fifth floor. Eames’ room was on the twentieth. 

He turned to make some remark to Arthur and was surprised to find Arthur stepping forward, pressing both hands to his chest. Arthur pushed him back to the wall, and kissed him.

Eames recovered quickly, curling his fingers in Arthur’s parka and pulling him close. He parted his lips, and Arthur positively _claimed_ him. 

It immediately sent a burst of lust to Eames’ cock, and he tilted his hips against Arthur’s, seeking friction, before he realized he was doing it. Arthur responded instantaneously, pressing forward against him, but that damned parka between them absorbed far too much sensation; it was like trying to dry hump with a pillow in the way.

He heard Arthur inhale with a slight shudder, and then Arthur tilted his head and kissed him even more deeply. Just as Eames was on the verge of going limp against the wall, the lift stopped and the bell sounded, saving him from such indignity -- for now.

Arthur pulled back, blinking, eyes wide and black behind his glasses. Eames let go of Arthur’s parka with one hand, tightened the other, and pulled Arthur out of the lift and down the empty hallway toward his room.

Arthur stumbled for a moment, but recovered, following close behind, hand hovering at the small of Eames’ back. 

Eames fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his room key, and frantically unlocked the door. He hauled Arthur inside, slammed the door closed, pressed Arthur against the wall, and resumed kissing him. Arthur’s hands went right for his arse, squeezing it and pulling Eames’ hips in close against his own. Eames made a soft sound, and Arthur went forward, pressing Eames back against the opposite wall of the foyer. Thus pinned, Eames gradually found himself almost going limp, letting Arthur hold him up, hands now framing his hips. Eames put his arms around Arthur, but-- “Arthur,” he rasped, breaking and trying not to pant, “for the love of all things holy, let me get you out of that bloody _fucking_ parka.” 

Arthur laughed, breathless, and stood back. Eames realized the room was dark, and the only light was the ambient glow of the streetlights below from behind the curtains. Even so, he could still make out Arthur’s dimples. 

Eames switched on the lamp, leaned back against the wall, and reached for one of the frog closures on the parka. “Early Christmas present to myself,” he murmured, and Arthur laughed again. 

Eames undid every closure, and sighed loudly when he revealed the zipper underneath them. Arthur snickered. Slowly, Eames unzipped the blasted parka, then equally slowly pushed it down Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur was watching him, smiling. He shrugged out of his parka, then let Eames take it and toss it somewhere in the room. 

Eames paused for a moment to look at him. Disappointingly, Arthur was not naked underneath his parka: he wore a plaid shirt, which Eames began to unbutton, and which Arthur then shrugged off. It fell to the floor. Underneath that, he had on a white undershirt. “My God,” Eames groaned in mock exasperation. “At least the bloody parka’s off.” 

Arthur, laughing, peeled off his undershirt, and Eames was on him, finally able to get his hands on smooth warm bare skin, kissing him again. Arthur pulled Eames’ shirttails out, unbuttoning his shirt and breaking the kiss only when he couldn’t proceed any further. Eames shrugged out of his suit jacket and then his shirt, and laughed when Arthur tugged impatiently at the vest he had on under that. Off came the white vest, and then Eames toed off his shoes and unbuckled his trouser belt. 

Arthur got his trainers off and shucked off his jeans before Eames had a chance to help him with any of it, and stood before him in socks and tiny boxer briefs. Arthur’s big, quick hands took over getting Eames out of his trousers, and Arthur kissed him again. Their stubbled faces were going to leave beard burn on each other; Eames shuddered at the thought. He stepped out of his trousers as he was kissed, and kicked them away. 

Arthur’s hands were roaming over his chest almost greedily, sliding around to his back as if to learn his contours. Eames cupped his jaw and leaned back onto the wall again, pulling Arthur into the V of his legs. Arthur’s hands spread out over his shoulders. 

Arthur kissed him with boldness and confidence, and Eames couldn’t get enough of it. One might have assumed that Arthur, with the way he dressed, his glasses, and his unruly curls, would be shy and hesitant; Eames, meanwhile, was inwardly crowing to find that his hunch had been correct. 

Arthur briefly closed his teeth on Eames’ lower lip, and with a groan Eames pushed him back to the foyer’s other wall and sank to his knees. 

“Oh God,” Arthur said as Eames curled his fingers around the waistband of Arthur’s little boxer briefs, and Eames heard a soft thunk as Arthur let his head fall back against the wall. 

Eames looked up at him. “Is this all right?” he asked, a little coy, and ran the point of his tongue over his lower lip. 

Through his glasses, Arthur looked dazed. “Fuck yes, it’s all right.”

Eames chuckled softly, and peeled down Arthur’s underwear, freeing his cock, which appeared to be extremely interested in the proceedings; well sized, and flushed dark, it was hard and leaking. Arthur’s groin was dusted with dark curls, just this side of unkempt. Eames licked a long wet stripe up the underside of his cock, feeling it jump, and then took him in. 

He hummed happily; Arthur tasted delicious, warm and faintly salty on his tongue. As Eames drew his tongue and lips up and down Arthur’s cock he was pleased to feel Arthur’s hands in his hair, at the longer strands at the crown, pulling just hard enough to send tingles to Eames’ groin. He hummed again at that, and Arthur groaned and began thrusting shallowly into Eames’ mouth. 

Oh, that was quite all right. Eames sucked at him whenever he drew back, and with a squeeze to Arthur’s hips encouraged Arthur to fuck his mouth. He had the option of wrapping a hand around Arthur’s cock, or cupping his balls, but he had a hunch that for Arthur, this was about Eames’ mouth, and the continued use of his mouth alone would be appreciated. Arthur arched his hips off the wall, both hands grasping locks of Eames’ hair, the head of his cock repeatedly nudging Eames’ soft palate. 

Realizing his eyes had fallen closed, Eames opened them and looked up at Arthur. He’d half expected him to have his head thrown back, but instead, Arthur was watching his cock in Eames’ mouth. He now locked eyes with Eames, dark curls tumbling over the frames of his glasses, and moved faster and harder, almost battering Eames’ mouth. Eames imagined his lips swollen with it, his hair mussed from Arthur’s pulling, and his own cock pulsed. 

“Fuck. Eames, Eames,” Arthur whispered, as if half to himself, hoarse and sounding slightly frantic. He was flushed, his brow furrowed, looking almost as though he were in pain. “Eames-- Can I--”

Eames hummed assent. Arthur pulled him in and nearly choked him with his cock. Eames found himself straining for it, pressing as close as he could, taking in as much as possible. Arthur moaned, cupping the back of his head with one hand as the other mindlessly tugged at Eames’ hair, and after some frantic thrusts came down his throat.

Eames swallowed as much as he could, listening to Arthur’s shaky inhalations. As Arthur let go of his hair and drew back, Eames let him slide free, traces of Arthur’s come and Eames’ own saliva wetting his lips and chin. Arthur took his somewhat softening cock in hand and drew the tip over Eames’ lower lip, eyes glued to the sight, nostrils flaring as he spread more traces of come there. Eames’ tongue followed, licking it up as best he could manage. He fluttered his lashes, grinning, and Arthur barked out a short, breathless laugh. Now he let his head fall back against the wall. Eames sat back on his heels, every nerve buzzing, almost light-headed with how turned on he was. 

Arthur huffed out a breath. Eames waited to hear him apologize, say he got carried away, something along those lines.

“Fuck, I’ve been thinking about doing that for so long,” he said instead, a bit hoarse. He smoothed a hand through his curls. Closing his eyes for a moment, regaining his composure, he stood up properly again, stepped out of his shorts and pulled off his socks. Naked, he adjusted his glasses, and looked down at Eames. “Now. You.”

“Me,” Eames said. His cock was soaking through his underwear. He gave himself a brief squeeze, and inhaled.

“Jerk yourself off,” Arthur said. “I want to watch you.”

Eames went still, feeling his face and neck go hot. His cock twitched.

“What, too shy?” Arthur folded his arms, looking like every fantasy Eames had dreamt up about lean intelligent boys whilst in school.

“Oh, hardly,” Eames scoffed, drawing his cock out of his pants and giving himself a good squeeze. Arthur grinned. Eames watched his face, boldly observing; no downcast eyes for him. Something in him savored the notion of being provoking even as he was sat on the floor whilst Arthur stood, and was doing what Arthur told him. Granted, if he didn’t want to wank on Arthur’s command, he’d have refused. On the contrary, he found the idea quite appealing, and started to loosely stroke himself, in no hurry. 

“Tell me what you think about when you masturbate,” Arthur said. His voice seemed lower than usual.

Eames thought. “Well,” he said, conversationally, “to name but one example, I have a bit of a locker room fantasy.”

“Yeah? Tell me.”

“Do we really know each other well enough for you to be told my fantasies?” Eames said, mock-scolding, with a wink.

“Well, you just had my dick in your mouth, and we’ve literally been in each other’s minds, so….” Arthur shrugged, smiling. “You tell me.”

“All right, all right.” Eames grasped himself a bit more firmly. He cleared his throat. “Well. Myself and my mates are coming off the pitch having won a big match, and we’re sweaty and dirty and we’ve a lot of excess energy to burn off. We start stripping our kit off to shower but we don’t quite make it to the showers, most of the time, or we do, but we find much more interesting things to do than simply showering.”

“Don’t leave off there.”

“I wasn’t going to. Just summing up. Right, so as this is my fantasy, my lovely sweaty fit mates start to focus primarily on me.” Arthur laughed; Eames continued. “If my kit’s not all off, they get it off. They’re very handsy. A very friendly lot.” He adjusted his grip. “If I’m in the mood to draw things out, I have it so they more or less make me suck them all off. I like to think about each of their cocks.” He bit his lip. “Sometimes I’ll think about them all wanking off on me, coming on my face and neck and chest.” 

Arthur watched him with interest, and appreciation. Part of Eames wanted him to shut up and stop revealing his predilections to Arthur, but the rest of him very much liked it.

He sighed, and continued, realizing that his strokes were less casual now and his heart was beating faster. “And I also like to think about the entire team getting me on my back on a bench and fucking me, one after the other.”

Arthur looked fascinated. “So a gangbang.”

Eames felt his cheeks heat. “I might not put it so crudely, but yes. A… gangbang.”

“Have you ever gone under and acted this out?” Arthur asked.

“I rarely have access to a PASIV I can use alone,” Eames said. “But I’ve certainly thought about it.”

“You can borrow mine sometime. Or we can use it together,” Arthur said absently. He swept a hand through his hair, and folded his arms again. “Do you jerk yourself off while they fuck you?”

“They don’t let me until the last one,” Eames replied. He was aware of sounding more breathless now. “They hold my hands above my head so I can’t.”

“Fuck,” Arthur said, half to himself, and Eames felt a pulse in his cock.

“The last one’s always my favorite,” Eames added. “He tells me to come and I resist for a while out of sheer stubbornness.”

“You would. Why’s he your favorite?” 

“He’s the cutest,” Eames said, flip. “He also tells me what a massive cockslut I am. He tells me to jerk myself off and watches me come for him, and he fucks me absolutely raw. And the others all watch.” Eames sighed and gave his balls a squeeze and tug with his other hand, and started stroking faster, fingers paying some special attention to his foreskin. Might as well show off a bit for Arthur as long as he had the opportunity. 

“Things get a bit blurry after that,” he added, with an attempt at nonchalance markedly at odds with his quickening breath and the way he couldn’t help stroking himself faster. 

“Yeah,” Arthur said, and it really was surprising how deep his voice could be. “Come on, Eames,” he said. “I want to watch you make yourself come.”

Eames closed his eyes, bit his lip, and inhaled. He heard Arthur’s accompanying intake of breath and felt a renewal of his enjoyment in being watched and admired. His thoughts returned to his locker room fantasy, and knowing that Arthur was probably picturing this as well leant a sharper edge to it all.

“You thinking about getting fucked on a locker room bench?” Arthur asked, surprising him a bit.

“Nnnh. Yes,” Eames replied, grip tight.

“Good, because I’m thinking about fucking you on one,” Arthur replied.

Eames pressed his lips together to suppress his groan, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as he huffed out a breath through his nose, overall attempting to make it seem as though he hadn’t really heard what Arthur had said and it certainly wasn’t what was at last making him come.

Panting, he opened his eyes to look up at Arthur as he worked out the last drops, shuddering. Arthur was staring at his cock and the splatters on his belly, eyes heavy-lidded and mouth slack. Though he didn’t feel comfortable saying so just then, Eames rather liked to be touched and kissed after he came, and couldn’t help imagining Arthur getting on his knees and kissing him with that lovely slack mouth. What he said instead was “Will you hand me some of those tissues there,” and Arthur, blinking, moved to do so. 

“Fuck, that was hot,” Arthur said, watching Eames mop up. Arthur wasn’t hard again, but he wasn’t completely soft, either. He put his pants back on, then his undershirt and jeans. Eames got to his feet carefully, trying not to stagger after so much time on the floor (he might be getting a tad old for this sort of thing -- oh, perish the thought) and pulled his pants up properly as well, and stopped there -- it was his room, after all.

From his parka pocket, Arthur’s phone sounded an alert, and he got it out to check it. “I’ve gotta go,” he sighed, setting the phone down to put on his plaid shirt.

“No room service, then?” Eames asked, as Arthur sat on the bed to put on his socks and shoes.

“Afraid not,” Arthur said. 

Dressed once more, Arthur gave him a kiss, hand resting briefly on the naked skin at the small of his back. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

“Absolutely,” Eames said, following him to the door, locking it after him.

Eames ordered a steak and a baked potato from room service. It was for the best that Arthur hadn’t stayed to eat and to spend the night, he knew that. He tried not to wonder about what sleeping with Arthur would be like -- did he steal the covers, did he spoon, did he snore, did he like morning sex? -- and instead reminded himself that Arthur was a coworker, and he had the entire bed to himself. Why, if it was someone in his bed he wanted, he still had time to go and pick someone up. He decided that he was too full, and went to sleep. 

\-------

With some detachment, Eames wondered how Arthur would behave toward him the next day. For his part, he was going to be perfectly casual and professional, as before. This wasn’t the first time he’d gotten up to something with a colleague after hours. 

Arthur was just as he’d been recently: professional, cordial, a bit impatient here and there. He made Eames explain something inside-out and questioned him at length, until Eames became exasperated and Mal balled up a piece of paper and threw it at them. It bounced off Arthur’s parka. 

When they went their separate ways in the evening, Eames wondered if Arthur would ask him to dinner again, but no such invitation was forthcoming. Eames had room service and went to bed early. 

The next day was much the same. Eames had at first appreciated the distance and Arthur’s ability to separate sexual activity from work -- not everyone was able to do it -- but as the day neared its close, he was beginning to feel a bit put out. Surely it wouldn’t kill Arthur to make some sort of discreet overture. It was true that Arthur had done the asking to dinner last time, and it would be perfectly reasonable for Eames to ask, but, well, after sucking his cock and wanking off at his direction Eames was perilously close to feeling vulnerable about it all. It was threatening to make him irritable, and Arthur mustn’t suspect a thing, so he kept his frustration to himself. Cool professionalism was the order of the day.

As the afternoon wound down, with Mal stifling her yawns with increasing frequency, Arthur approached, stood at his shoulder, and said quietly, “Hey, sorry I had to leave the other night.”

Eames shrugged noncommittally, putting his papers back in their associated folders. 

“Want to try again for dinner tonight?” Arthur asked.

“Hmm.” Eames checked his watch. Frowned. Made a show of considering. “It’s possible.”

Arthur grinned, going dimply again. “I’d like it if you could.”

Eames cleared his throat. “Well, all right. I suppose.”

“There’s a Chinese place on the way to my hotel, we could pick something up,” Arthur suggested, adjusting his glasses, glancing at Eames meaningfully and then looking back down at the PASIV components he was carrying. 

“That’s fine.” 

“Catch you on the way out,” Arthur said, striding back to his desk with the parts. He whistled to himself as he put the PASIV back together, and Eames looked through his notes again.

They took the Chinese takeaway up to Arthur’s room, where Arthur toed off his shoes, took off his parka, and got on the bed, up against the headboard, ankles crossed. He put on the telly and started on his carton, which contained a spicy beef dish. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, gesturing to the other side of the bed.

Eames shrugged off his jacket, got his loafers off, and sat alongside Arthur, rather stiffly. Arthur was absorbed in the program, something with black and white footage from the war, but he turned to give Eames a brief smile and settled closer to him, almost touching. He passed Eames his carton of food, a chicken dish.

They watched telly in a gradually more companionable silence as they ate; Eames was struck by the fact that Arthur was seemingly at ease with him here, while Eames felt a bit uncertain about what it was they were doing. He decided to look at it simply: they were having dinner together in Arthur’s room. Afterward, they would presumably have sex. Following that, Eames might well stay the night. 

The program was actually engrossing, and Eames hardly noticed when Arthur shifted to lean more against him. Eames sat up briefly to put his empty carton on the bedside table, and then settled back against him, starting to feel drowsy. 

Arthur stifled a yawn. “Are you okay with it,” he said, “if we sleep?”

That actually sounded appealing. Eames shrugged. “Sure,” he replied, and they stripped down to their underthings. After they brushed their teeth, Arthur switched off the telly, and they got under the covers. Arthur put his glasses on the bedside table.

Eames was curious to see how Arthur would comport himself. He lay on his side, facing away, slightly stiff as he waited to see what Arthur would do. 

After shifting around a bit, Arthur rolled over to tuck himself behind Eames, very close but not touching. He seemed to fall asleep almost immediately, and Eames, gradually relaxing, soon followed. 

Hours later, Eames awakened slowly in the dark at the feel of Arthur’s erection nudging at the crux of his thighs. “Mmmph,” he remarked, and shifted, turning slightly and looking over his shoulder. Arthur had flung an arm over him in his sleep, and he was essentially being spooned.

Arthur came awake at Eames’ movement. “Ah, sorry,” he whispered after a moment, hoarse. 

“Oh, it’s, er, fine,” Eames replied. They were quiet for a moment. Since he’d awakened, Arthur hadn’t really moved that much. No doubt he was trying to bring himself down. Well, that was silly. No sense in wasting an erection like that.

“It’s fine,” Eames said again, looking at Arthur, who blinked. Arthur spread his hand out on Eames’ chest. “Were you dreaming about me?” Eames teased mildly, wanting to ease the awkwardness and get Arthur to do something, damn it.

Arthur chuckled. “Probably,” he said, dry, hand sliding over Eames’ chest. Eames pressed his arse back against him and raised a brow.

“You’ve woken me up, might as well make it worth doing,” Eames said, and Arthur blinked again, nodding. Finally.

“So -- do you want to--” Arthur began, starting to take off his underwear. 

“Mm, no, perhaps not the entire production?” Eames mused. “Perhaps you’d like to have a go at my thighs.”

“I would,” Arthur agreed, nodding. Eames threw the covers back and shimmied out of his knickers, rolling on his back to do so. 

“Facing you or away?” Eames asked, as Arthur rid himself of his pants. 

“Facing me,” Arthur decided. 

Eames turned. “Haven’t done this much since I was a schoolboy,” he commented, watching Arthur give his cock a casual stroke or two -- evidently the prospect of fucking Eames’ thighs was indeed a bright one. It took Eames a moment to realize Arthur was attempting to kiss him. Arthur chuckled softly as Eames tilted his head properly to meet it. 

Compared to the intensity of their earlier kisses, this was much calmer. But there was still that lack of hesitation, a lack of much awkwardness on Arthur’s part that made Eames feel all the more awkward in the face of it. 

Arthur guided his cock between the tops of Eames’ thighs, and Eames squeezed his thighs tightly around it. Then Arthur hooked his top leg over Eames’ top leg, squeezing his legs closer and pressing them down, a little show of dominance that had Eames’ interest. Eames wondered for a moment at his not using lube, but after all, this was hasty, and it was still the wee hours. 

Still kissing him, Arthur began to fuck his thighs, one hand moving to squeeze his hip, urging him to move with him. They were both still clumsy with sleep, but the hushed urgency leant a headiness to it all, and Arthur was soon panting into his mouth, hips straining, Eames squeezing his thighs more tightly together.

Arthur broke the kiss to come with a quiet gasping shudder. It was dark in the room, but ambient light emanating from behind the curtain showed Eames the bright glitter in Arthur’s black eyes as he blinked. Eames shifted back to take hold of his cock, only to find Arthur displacing his hand and taking over, his big hand with its long fingers doing a quick job of it. Eames closed his eyes, but he was quite sure Arthur watched his face as he came, with a stopped-off choked sound in his throat. Arthur leaned in to kiss him again, soundly, and Eames clutched at his hot, smooth skin. He was still taking deep, shuddering breaths; Arthur kissed him in a leisurely fashion until he caught his breath, until they were sleepy again, slowly disentangling from each other and sinking back into the sheets, sweat cooling.

Before he drifted off entirely, however, Eames decided to get up and clean up. Naked, he staggered to the ensuite, and wiped himself off with a wet flannel. He brought the flannel to Arthur, who wiped his hands off, then tossed it back with a word of thanks. Eames went back to the ensuite to deposit the damp flannel in the sink and turn out the light.

Eames returned to bed, scratching the back of his head and stifling a yawn. He got under the covers, found his pants, and put them back on. 

“I’m going to be blunt,” Arthur said.

“Oh?” Eames smothered a laugh at the thought of Arthur issuing warnings for his bluntness.

“Your ass is amazing. I didn’t get a good look at it before.”

“Ah.” Eames grinned, and stretched extravagantly. “I daresay you didn’t really get a good look at it now, either, in the dark and without your glasses.”

Arthur chuckled sleepily. “Good point. Something to look forward to.” He settled against Eames and seemed to fall asleep almost immediately.

Eames awoke to an empty bed, pale light beginning to fill the room, and the sound of the shower running. He rolled over and went back to sleep.

He woke up again to Arthur pulling the sheets down and smacking his bum. “Rrrrr,” he said, indignant, and now turned on. He sat up a bit and watched Arthur, dressed and with damp curls, put on his glasses.

“I’ll order some tea,” Arthur said. “Get your ass in the shower and get ready.”

“You can’t smack a man on the arse and leave it at that,” Eames grumbled, standing.

“Rain check,” Arthur said. “We’ll be late otherwise.”

“Sod being late,” Eames muttered, but he went to shower anyway. And there was tea when he came out, at least.

To Eames’ disappointment, Arthur was serious about not being late. 

“Is that the same outfit you wore yesterday?” Mal asked him, and after a long moment of silence, Dom snickered. Arthur looked down, trying to hide a grin.

“You always have such a lovely eye for detail,” Eames told her, and changed the subject. 

They spent the rest of the morning under, testing out models for the dreamscape and running through scenarios. Arthur and Eames woke up first, and as Arthur pulled out his line, he said, conversationally, “So am I fucking you in your room or mine?”

“I beg your pardon?” Eames said, and then Mal and Dom woke up. Arthur stood, adjusted his glasses, put his hands in his parka pockets and returned to the topic of the lighting in the dream, cool as a cucumber. Eames, meanwhile, inwardly cursed him for the distraction.

“And what if I’ve plans this evening?” Eames asked later, sotto voce, as he walked past Arthur’s workspace. 

“I didn’t say I meant tonight.” Arthur smiled serenely. 

As they were filing out, Arthur casually informed them that he would be going to the very large nearby bookstore which was open late, and he’d see them all tomorrow morning. Eames shrugged and went to get something to eat.

Arthur was busy the next two nights as well.

They were professional with each other at work -- that is, other than the arguing. That was par for the course, really, and was essentially what constituted professionalism between them. Dom and Mal no longer even seemed to register their throwing paper clips at each other.

Finally, it had all gotten to be too much. As the afternoon wound down, Eames walked to Arthur’s workspace where Arthur sat, put his hand on the desk, leaned down, and said quietly but imperiously, “You may fuck me this evening, in my room.”

“Oh yeah?” Arthur looked up at him, faintly amused. “Is that right?”

“Ten o’clock,” Eames said, and strode off. “Make it good.”

At precisely ten o’clock, there was a knock on Eames’ door. Eames, in trousers and sockfeet, got up at his leisure from watching telly to answer the door. He’d been waiting impatiently all evening but it was important to seem casual to Arthur.

Arthur, in glasses and parka, regarded him calmly. “Good evening,” he said smoothly, a sparkle of humor in his dark eyes.

“Do come in,” Eames said, gesturing, locking the door after him.

Arthur shed his parka and toed off his trainers. “Nice work today,” he said.

“Thank you,” Eames said dryly. “I do appreciate the compliment, even if there’s really no need for it, considering.”

Arthur shrugged. “You did well, I complimented you. I don’t compliment people just to get into their pants.” He looked around. “I brought lube in case you didn’t have any.”

“I always have lube,” Eames replied. “What, straight away asking about lube? No foreplay at all?”

Arthur paused in unbuttoning his shirt, walked over to Eames, cupped his jaw, and kissed him.

And there once more was that stirring feeling of being claimed. Oh, he’d been kissed before by forceful men, but they were all simply demanding, a one-way request with no knowledge of Eames or desire to know him in the touching and the kissing, no asking for a response in kind. Arthur’s fingertips traced his jaw, held him there with almost no effort, sucked at his tongue and crushed against his lips, feeling him out, plunging into him. But every bit of it was about Eames, not about showing some random man he was top dog.

When Arthur slowly drew back, for a moment, Eames followed him, lips parted. Blinking, wordless, he went for Arthur’s shirt buttons, undoing the rest. No sooner was that on the floor than Arthur was swiftly tugging off his undershirt, then unbuttoning his jeans. Eames hastily got his trousers off, and Arthur stepped out of his jeans to smooth his hands down Eames’ chest and stomach, and take off his shorts. 

“On the bed,” he said as Eames stepped out, and gave him a smack on the bum. Eames gave him an arch look over his shoulder, but went to get on the bed.

Arthur’s erection bobbed against his belly. Eames would have been lying if he’d said he wasn’t ready to go just at the sight of it.

“Right,” Eames said, and cleared his throat. On his hands and knees, he said, “Lube’s in my bag, on the top.”

Arthur chuckled. He found the lube, and knelt behind Eames. 

Eames found himself spreading his knees apart, tilting his hips. “Getting a good look at my arse?”

“A very good look,” Arthur said. 

“Go on, then,” Eames said, hoping he sounded casual.

Arthur spread one hand over the small of his back, and presumably he was holding his cock with the other as he dragged it up and down Eames’ crack. “I like taking my time.”

Eames swallowed hard. 

The nudging head of Arthur’s cock was replaced by Arthur’s fingers tracing over his hole. Eames couldn’t help squirming. Slick, they pressed in, and slowly twisted. Eames inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes. Arthur had long, strong fingers. Eames thought about the times he’d watched Arthur fiddle with the PASIV and idly imagined those hands on him, in him.

He let his head drop, and observed the way his own cock was starting to drip. He knew he was being quiet; he was afraid if he let himself speak, he’d start begging. Arthur had probably guessed it, too, damn it all. 

Arthur drew his fingers almost entirely out, then pushed them back in. Almost involuntarily, Eames arched his back in a sinuous curve. Arthur gentled him with that hand on his skin, and Eames heard him inhale. The same hand moved around Eames’ side and took his cock in its firm, hot grip. Eames gasped and thrust into the hold. In response, Arthur’s fingers pushed in deeper. Eames’ gasp slid into a desperate groan, which he abruptly choked down, face hot.

“No, no,” Arthur said, squeezing him, “I want to hear you. Talk to me, Eames.”

“Fuck me,” Eames said, cock jumping in Arthur’s hand. “Arthur, please.”

For a moment, Arthur went very still, all over. Then, in a smooth continuous motion he released Eames’ cock, picked up the lube, and removed his fingers. Eames closed his eyes and waited for the nudge of Arthur’s slicked cock. At the feel of it, he shuddered. That hand returned to the small of his back.

Arthur started to push in, slow and steady. Eames pressed back against him, enjoying the discomfort, yet craving too the moment when the discomfort would ease.

He felt Arthur’s thighs against the backs of his own. “You good?” Arthur asked, one hand going to Eames’ hip, pulling him back against him.

Eames sunk to his forearms, and sighed. “Yes,” he said. And Arthur started moving. “Ahhh--hhh-hhh,” Eames sighed, the sound jolting in his throat at the tempo of the thrusts. Arthur wasn’t hesitant in the slightest.

Resting his weight on one forearm, Eames moved to take hold of his cock. Quick as could be, Arthur’s hand shot from Eames’ hip to his wrist, taking firm hold. “Uh uh uh,” he scolded, a grin in his voice, turning Eames’ arm to take it behind him. “Give me the other one.”

“I can’t,” Eames complained, breathless. “I’m on--”

“Give it to me,” Arthur ordered. “No wanking yourself off unless I let you.”

 _Oh fuck_ , Eames thought. Arthur remembered the locker room fantasy. Without another word, he surrendered the other arm and sank to rest on his shoulders, head turned. His neck would kill him tomorrow, but that hardly mattered. Arthur grasped a wrist in each hand at the small of his back, and resumed fucking him. 

At some point, Eames’ eyes slid closed and his mouth fell open, and he reflected on how painfully hard he was. 

“F-f-f-uck,” he slurred, surprised by the loudness of his own breathing. He was simply… letting himself be fucked. Letting Arthur fuck him. 

“I don’t think this happens to you often,” Arthur said, voice low and rough.

“What, I don’t have sex often?” Eames managed, with a hint of indignation. All in all he wasn’t able to put a great deal of umbrage into it.

“I don’t think _this_ happens to you often,” Arthur said, slowing his thrusts, making them deeper. “I don’t think you just let yourself go.”

“I haven’t let myself go,” Eames said. “I’ll have you know I do go to the gym rather often.”

“You know what I mean,” Arthur said, amused. “You don’t just lose yourself in… being used, indulging yourself.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Eames said, “but I feel I’m at a disadvantage attempting to discuss my complicated psyche while your cock’s up my arse.”

“I have no problem with tabling this particular discussion,” Arthur said, shifting somehow and going faster at a slightly different angle, “and instead telling you what a cockslut you are while I fuck you raw.”

Eames cursed himself for having told Arthur that fantasy, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“You want it so bad, I bet you’d let me do this all night,” Arthur continued, low, almost slurring his words as well. “You love feeling it, you love getting fucked.” 

Eames felt hot all over, and he made some sort of reply in the affirmative. Arthur still had a strong grip on his arms, was using him as leverage to keep him in place to fuck him hard. He was indeed going to feel this tomorrow, and all over his body; the thought made him shudder, and he got out, “Make me feel it, Arthur.”

“Fuck, you’re so good,” Arthur breathed, his every thrust pounding through Eames. “Look at you taking it. Even better than I hoped.”

Eames was lost for a witty rejoinder. He arched his back a bit more, spread his knees a touch wider. It wasn’t lost on Arthur.

“Fuck,” Arthur bit out, voice tight. “Eames, I’m gonna come.” 

Arthur pressed deep when he came, panting; Eames’ cock twitched at the thought that he was being claimed, and he barely managed to be exasperated at himself for thinking that, let alone wanting that. Time to worry about that later, when he wasn’t getting fucked and being desperate to come.

“Isn’t it my turn yet,” he said.

Arthur let one wrist go, and changed his hold on the other so that he was -- oh -- holding Eames’ hand, essentially. Well, best not to think about that; he swiftly moved his freed hand, aching joints and all, to his cock, and wanked himself off with all speed, Arthur still inside him and moving slowly, shallowly, and if he squeezed Arthur’s hand as he came, well, perhaps Arthur was too busy enjoying the aftershocks to notice. It was a reflex, anyway.

Eames closed his eyes and sank into the bed; Arthur released his hand and withdrew, letting Eames slump, sticky and breathless and smiling. Arthur stroked a hand down his flank, encouraged him to roll over, and kissed him. Eames kept smiling. Arthur was smiling, too, as he drew back.

“Wow, you really needed that.”

Eames huffed, still grinning despite himself. “Don’t be smug, it’s unbecoming.”

Arthur laughed, and went to get a flannel to clean them up. 

Eames fell asleep shortly after that, with a vague awareness that Arthur was tucked up behind him. He slept like a rock.

 _Brain chemicals_ , Eames reminded himself the next morning, as Arthur pressed sleepy little kisses to his neck and idly palmed his chest. _Brain chemicals are making me feel good and fond of Arthur. Because of the sex. The amazing sex._

“Sleep good?” Arthur asked, soft and low against his ear. His glasses were off and his curls tickled. Eames shivered. _Arthur is a prick_ , he reminded himself. Unfortunately, that had him thinking of Arthur’s prick.

He’d been asked a question, he remembered. “Yes,” he said. “Bit sore, though. What time is it, are we late?”

“We’re fine,” Arthur said, and stifled a yawn. “Wanted to give you time for tea, I’ll call down for it in a minute. I also need time to shave and put in my contacts, we’re meeting with a prospective client today and Mal insisted.” He added as an afterthought, “If it was up to her, I’d look like that all the time.”

“Ah,” Eames said after a moment. Arthur kissed his shoulder, then rolled over and sat up to pick up the phone and order Eames’ tea, some coffee, and some pastries and fruit. Hanging up, he turned a bit to look at Eames. 

“You don’t have to go,” Arthur added. “To the meeting.” 

“Oh, no, I didn’t think you’d let me.” Eames rolled onto his back, rather stiffly, and winked. Arthur chuckled, resting a hand on his stomach. Eames cleared his throat, and said lightly, “I will miss your stubble and your glasses, however.”

Arthur grinned. “The stubble grows back, and I can put the glasses back on. I’m told I look fetching when I clean myself up.”

“I suppose you do,” Eames said. “Just don’t wear that dreadful parka.” 

With a laugh, Arthur leaned in to kiss him. Eames put a hand in his hair and kept him there for a bit… just a bit….

When there was a knock at the door, they both started. Arthur got up, and Eames chuckled when he paused to find a robe and wrap it around himself. Eames sat up properly, and Arthur brought him his tea, setting the tray on the bed. Arthur downed his coffee and had a pastry, then kissed Eames on the top of his head and went to shower.

After he had a pastry and some fruit, and finished his tea, Eames dozed off again. He woke to Arthur on the phone, dress shirt on but not buttoned, standing in his sock feet and little underpants with a tie around his neck. He was clean shaven, his hair slicked back. Seeing Eames was awake, he winked at him. Eames, inwardly delighted, scoffed and pretended to go back to sleep.

Arthur ended his call. “Mal says you can sleep in,” he told Eames. 

Eames continued pretending to be asleep, and he heard Arthur chuckle. He opened his eyes, and yawned. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

“Oh, nothing,” Arthur said, and buttoned his shirt. “I’ll come back here after the meeting and we can go to lunch and then get some practice in.” He stood in front of the mirror to knot his tie. He looked serene, relaxed, and Eames couldn’t help congratulating himself for being responsible for Arthur’s good mood.

Eames watched him finish dressing, which was a sort of pornography in and of itself. He enjoyed the novelty of seeing this sleek, dressed-up Arthur, though he was already looking forward to seeing the unruly curls, the stubble, the glasses, and the parka again. “Do you know,” he mused, “I’m afraid that from now on, whenever I see a man in a parka I’ll get an erection.”

Arthur, who was finishing tying his shoes, laughed. He leaned in to kiss Eames. “I’ll come get you for lunch,” he said. 

“Did Mal really say I could sleep in?” 

“Yeah.” Arthur’s eyes twinkled. “I told her you were the best I’d ever had.”

“Piss off.” Laughing, Eames threw a pillow at Arthur, who batted it away and checked to ensure his hair was still neat. “Go on, then. Leave.” Smiling, Arthur did.

Eames went back to sleep, but not for long. He got up, showered, watched telly in his underthings, and looked over his notes. When Arthur came back, Eames was in front of the mirror over the sink, combing his hair down properly. Arthur kissed the back of his neck, and reached around him to lightly palm his nipples, evident against the soft fabric of his vest in the cool air of the room. “Oi,” Eames said mildly. Setting down the comb, he turned in Arthur’s arms and received the expected kiss. He could get used to this….

“How did it go?” he asked.

“Very well, I think,” Arthur said. “They’re familiar with dreamshare, though, and they want to meld our team with another team that has a forger, one they’ve used before. They were pretty insistent on that point, so it’ll be Clark on this job. Seems like it’ll be time-consuming, too.”

“Ah, Clark.” Eames, considering, tilted his head and pulled a bit of a face. “He’s all right, I suppose. I know Morrison works with him often, I suppose they’ll be wanting her, too?” Alice Morrison was one of Eames’ favorite chemists.

Arthur nodded, putting his hands in his pockets. “You’ve got something lined up after this, right?”

“I do,” Eames confirmed. “Passport forgery in Bucharest, quite a lot of it too.”

“Mm.” Arthur looked at his hairline for a moment and smoothed down an unruly lock. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

Eames shrugged. “Cafe’s fine,” he said, slipping past Arthur to find and put on the rest of his clothes. Arthur followed, casual, and now it was his turn to watch Eames dress. Eames felt pleasantly aware of the regard, and couldn’t resist playing up to it a bit.

Arthur wore his meeting outfit to lunch, but just before they left decided that he’d be more comfortable with his glasses instead of his contacts. It was so devastatingly attractive that Eames had to look away for a moment.

At the cafe, Eames let the toe of his shoe discreetly slide up the inside of Arthur’s ankle. Over the lip of his cup, Arthur pinned him with a look, then smiled. When Eames put his foot back on the floor properly, Arthur lightly pressed the toe of his shoe over Eames’, just keeping him there, and stayed like that throughout the meal. Eames would have never admitted just how arousing he found that.

They went back to the workspace together, and as a team they ran through the plan several times. From then on, they fell into a sort of pattern. There was nothing especially remarkable about the job itself, other than the notable exception of himself and Arthur switching off most nights when it came to sleeping in each other’s beds. 

One night, Arthur straddled Eames and had a wank over him, telling him how gorgeous he was, pinching his nipples and coming on his chest, massaging his come into Eames’ skin. Eames was a bit dizzy with it.

Post job, the client took them all out for drinks. Eames was no longer one for getting utterly pissed, but they all had a few, and he woke up in his bed to Arthur snoring on his chest, which by now he was surprisingly used to. He ruffled Arthur’s hair and earned himself a sleepy look, which he returned with a smile. Arthur shifted to press his face in the crook of Eames’ neck.

“Did we really just go right to sleep?” Eames asked him.

“Must have,” Arthur replied, hoarse. He dropped a kiss to Eames’ skin and then sat up.”I’m flying out this morning at ten,” he told Eames, stretching. “So I’m in desperate need of coffee.” 

Eames, of course, knew when Arthur was flying out, and just hadn’t felt the need to bring it up. He rubbed his eyes. “Go on and get in the shower,” he said, “and I’ll ring down for some.”

All too soon, Arthur was caffeinated, packed, and had rung down for a cab. He sat on Eames’ bed, where Eames was sitting up, still not dressed, sipping his tea. 

“I’d better get going,” Arthur said.

Eames nodded, and shrugged. He said, lightly, “Yes, I expect you ought to.” He didn’t move, or set down his teacup. 

Arthur waited for a few more breaths, seeming expectant, and then stood with a bit of a sigh, hoisting his shoulder bag. It was cold out, and of course he had on his parka. 

“It was very nice working with you, Eames,” Arthur said in the hallway, picking up his suitcase and the PASIV’s case. He paused to regard Eames, brow raised slightly.

“Likewise,” Eames said, casual. “I’ll see you on another job sometime, perhaps.”

“Yeah.” Arthur nodded, and then he opened the door and left. Eames sat alone in his room, finishing his tea and ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest.

\-------

Some weeks later, Eames was settled into his forgery job in Bucharest. He was mostly able to keep to himself, working out of a room off a quiet side street. He did find himself imagining Arthur in his bed here: in the wash of morning’s light, crisp snow-white sheet artfully arranged about him, flushed and sleepy and stretching, beckoning Eames back to bed with just the look in his eyes….

In reality, he’d exchanged a few polite, short texts with Arthur once he’d landed, and nothing since. He had the vague awareness that Arthur was on a longer job in Tokyo.

One afternoon, however, he got a text from him. _Don’t take Sinclair job._

In truth, Eames had been about to accept it. It was extraordinarily well-paying, and Eames was prepared to put aside his slight misgivings about the team members, especially the erratic extractor. But a simple text from Arthur and he was sure he wasn’t going to take it.

Because he trusted Arthur.

Arthur, who had gone to the trouble of warning him off. 

_ta. xx_

\-------

A month later, he was headed to another job with Arthur, who had rung him specifically to ask him to be on it. Eames managed to sound as casual as possible when accepting it, as if he didn’t really care either way. He could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice. 

This job was in Warsaw, where it was still cold. He walked into the loft space designated for the job to see Arthur seated before a whiteboard, having an animated discussion with the extractor, a garrulous fellow named Petersen. After observing for a moment, savoring the sight of Arthur in person again at last (dark curls, faint beard, glasses, parka), Eames cleared his throat, and they turned. Arthur shot to his feet, and then stood there, putting his hands in his parka pockets. “Eames,” he said coolly, nodding. There was new color in his cheeks.

Well. Eames walked over, giving Petersen a quick nod, and wrapped his arms around Arthur, who went still for a moment before relaxing against him.

“Missed you,” Eames whispered in his ear. He patted Arthur on the back. It was a quick embrace, and to the casual observer was simply one of people on a friendly basis who hadn’t seen each other in a while.

Eames then went on to shake hands with Petersen, and asked him to bring him up to speed on the job. Arthur sat again, quiet as Petersen explained, and after some time Petersen turned to him, and paused.

“Eames,” he said, “this is the only time I’ve seen Arthur smile on this entire job. Can I attribute this departure from grumpiness to you?”

“Oh, I can’t imagine why that might be the case,” Eames said airily, “but I’ll happily take the credit.” He winked at Arthur, who gave him a mock-stern look of pretend reproach.

Petersen took a call a bit later and excused himself, and Arthur learned over to Eames and murmured, “Check out of your hotel this afternoon and move your stuff to my room.”

Eames pretended to consider, and nodded. “Right.”

The rest of the team showed up, and Eames eventually took his turn explaining his take on the job’s possible complications and the best ways he saw of combating them. He occasionally looked to Arthur, who was watching and listening to him calmly, a faint smile just detectable. After Eames concluded his remarks, he winked at Arthur as he took his seat. Arthur smirked, ears turning pink. 

Petersen took them all to lunch, a posh cafe. Arthur, to Eames’ right, found one of his shoes under the table with his own and lightly pressed the toe down, keeping Eames’ foot in place, as he had before. 

Eames gave him a look, brow raised, trying to keep himself from grinning smugly. Arthur wasn’t looking at him anyway. Petersen would definitely notice his two colleagues making eyes at each other throughout lunch. Regardless, Eames felt a low hum of arousal, going out of his way to keep his foot still under Arthur’s, acknowledging that secret, subtle hint of a claim. Eames, who was given to abruptly flying to the other side of the world as soon as either he or someone interested in him started seeming a bit too attached, apparently had quite a liking for these casual displays of possessiveness from Arthur. It was safe, he decided, because Arthur knew he could not stake any claim on Eames if Eames himself did not want it or allow it. 

After they’d returned to the workspace, Eames entertained thoughts of going to dinner with Arthur, somewhere nice, and having Arthur press his shoe over his again. But alas, Petersen wanted to keep Arthur late to discuss the amount of research he’d need to do on the specific architectural details they wanted for the dream, and wouldn’t hear of making Eames stay late as well to help. 

“Eames, before I forget,” Arthur said, taking out his notebook and pen, tearing out a sheet, “here’s that information I owe you.” He wrote something down speedily and handed the note to Eames, meeting his gaze for a moment, a look that wouldn’t have seemed remarkable to most but which made Eames’ heart give a little jump.

“Much obliged, Arthur,” Eames said, pocketing the note in his jacket pocket without reading it, casually striding to the door. “See you lads tomorrow morning.”

\-------

Eames went to the bar in the lobby of his hotel to kill time. He had a glass of whiskey, taking his time with it, and noted with amusement the gazes being cast his way, some more discreet than others. The young blond man at the other end of the bar bought him another round. He tipped his glass in acknowledgment but didn’t wink or slide in next to the man as he would have in the past. No, tonight he had a date.

It was getting darker out, and Eames got up to go pack his things, after leaving his tip and giving the blond man a polite nod and a brief smile. The man nodded back, looking a tad disappointed but smiling as well. 

Whistling softly to himself, Eames went up alone to the darkened, quiet hallway where his room was, and quickly packed. His mobile chimed with a text as he zipped up the last bag.

_When you’re ready_

_Be there soon_ , Eames replied.

There was only a short line to check out in the lobby, and soon Eames was out in the chilly night, walking the few blocks to Arthur’s hotel. It was somewhat nicer than Eames’. 

He went to the front desk; he was expected, and his name was listed with the room. That gave him a little flutter in his stomach. He winked at the desk girl and walked to the lift bank with a little spring in his step.

At Arthur’s door, he paused, having had the instinct to knock, but he had a pass card now, didn’t he?

The telly was on in Arthur’s -- their -- room. Eames couldn’t see in to the suite at first, but once the bed was in view, he stood for a moment, still holding his bags, just looking at Arthur. 

Arthur was lounging back in the unmade bed, in just his underwear and glasses, grinning at Eames.

“Hey. Let me help you with those,” he said, getting to his feet with grace and ease, taking Eames’ bags and setting them in the corner of the room among his own before Eames could really react. 

He strode back over to Eames in the foyer, cupped his jaw with both hands in a delicate touch, and kissed him. His lips were soft and smooth, and his stubble scraped Eames’ own gruff short beard with the lightest friction.

Eames wrapped his arms around him, capturing him -- he was so warm against Eames’ winter-cooled clothes -- feeling the way he almost vibrated with pent-up energy, hard with muscle despite his slenderness, his kiss still delicate and searching, patiently waiting for Eames to open for him. Which he did.

Arthur tilted his head and pressed forward, and Eames shuddered lightly with the ease and confidence Arthur took in sliding his tongue into Eames’ mouth. Just as he was starting to get lost in it, however, Arthur withdrew, and said a little breathlessly, “Let’s get you out of these cold clothes.”

Momentary disappointment forgotten, Eames shrugged off his jacket with clumsy haste, and unbuckled his belt as Arthur began unbuttoning his shirt with quick fingers. He nearly stumbled stepping out of his shoes, as Arthur was busy tugging his undershirt over his head. Arthur steadied him and helped him get out of his trousers.

“You’re so hot,” Arthur murmured. “God, it gets me every time.”

“Still a bit cold, actually,” Eames said. “Warm me up, love, won’t you?”

Arthur ran his hands down Eames’ chest and then lightly pushed him back toward the bed. “Lie down.” Eames did, sprawling on his back. Arthur took off his socks and climbed onto the bed, bridging himself over Eames. “Hey,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

“If it’s okay with you,” he said, sitting up, astride Eames’ hips, wriggling slightly over his burgeoning erection, “I think I’d like to ride you.”

“And burden me with having to lie here and admire you?” Eames put his hands behind his head. He was mildly surprised that Arthur wanted to be fucked, but certainly wasn’t going to argue.

Arthur plucked the lube from the nightstand, peeled off his tiny shorts, and pulled Eames’ off as well. He slicked Eames up, positioned him, and sank down onto him. “Fuck,” Eames sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, fingers moving to grasp the headboard. Then Arthur started moving, fucking himself with Eames’ cock, planting his hands squarely in the middle of Eames’ chest and rolling his hips. 

“Just to take the edge off,” he said, breathless. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Indeed,” Eames got out.

Arthur squirmed, squeezed, and fucked Eames into an orgasm, and no sooner had he come than Arthur was wanking himself off and coming on Eames’ chest, Eames avidly watching Arthur’s hand on his cock. Blinking, panting, he slumped back. Arthur leaned in to kiss him, then slipped off and went to get a flannel to wipe them both up. 

That done, Arthur stretched out alongside him, warm and slightly damp with sweat, sated and practically purring. “Finally,” he sighed. “I missed you.”

Eames raised a brow. It occurred to him to wonder: “Had you not slept with anyone else since me?”

Arthur shrugged. “Well, I was busy, but… no. I didn’t really seek anybody out.”

“Nor me,” Eames said quietly, and pressed his lips together, looking away from the directness of Arthur’s gaze.

“There isn’t really anybody else I’m interested in right now,” Arthur continued after a pause, and Eames could feel Arthur watching him. 

Eames looked studiously at his thumbnail. “Ah. The same for me, I suppose.” 

“Let me know if that changes.”

“If you’ll do likewise.” 

“Mm, I will.” Arthur leaned in to kiss him again, and after a moment Eames sighed into it, feeling rather certain that neither of them would be telling the other any such thing.

He was more than willing to bet on it, at least.

\-------

Eames woke up because he was cold, and he was none too pleased to find the bed empty of Arthur -- he was always terribly warm. The sun must have just come up, and the bedroom was bright with the light reflecting off the snow outside. He rolled over to at least see if he could salvage leftover warmth from Arthur’s pillow, but upon turning over he was confronted with a small box resting there, on the same pillow. A burgundy box. A burgundy jewelry box.

Eames sat up and snatched it. He sat there for a moment, breathing, and then couldn’t make himself wait any longer to open it. All the same, he did so with trepidation.

Nestled in a pillow of dark burgundy velvet was a gold ring. With slightly trembling fingers, Eames pulled it out.

It had six flat sides, and each side had pips in it -- it was a takeoff of a die, Arthur’s totem. It was of brushed gold, and the “two” side featured a diamond set in each of the two pips. It was ridiculous and Eames loved it.

He was overwhelmed with the urge to put it on. It fit the ring finger of his left hand, and he stared at it for a while, lying back in the sheets and holding his hand up, the chill of the bedroom temporarily forgotten.

There were sounds and smells drifting in from the kitchen -- Arthur must be in there waiting for him to come out and make his answer evident. It must be killing him not to directly ask Eames -- he’d have found it so much easier to just forthrightly ask, to put this ring on Eames’ finger himself, but he knew Eames well enough to know that directness in regard to such a matter as this would have Eames looking for the exit, making his rushed excuses, and dashing out the door. Or a window. Instead, he was allowed to take his time here in their bed, to think alone about what this meant.

But it was all moot, because he didn’t have to think about it. The ring was on his finger, where it belonged. He was where he belonged.

Eames artfully wrapped himself in his favorite silk robe (another gift from Arthur), and took his time going to the kitchen. Arthur was at the stove, no doubt cooking his favorite omelet. His curls were a bit wild, and he hadn’t shaved. He didn't look up when Eames came in; in fact, he was looking studiously down at the omelet, focusing on it to an absurd degree.

"Morning," Arthur said with studied casualness, still not looking up.

"Good morning, Arthur," Eames replied, taking a seat at the table. "Have you got any tea and crumpets about?"

"I put the kettle on," Arthur said, folding his omelet, "and I can put a crumpet in the toaster if you like, we still have some." Arthur visibly swallowed, and then cleared his throat. He went to plate the omelet.

"You've been busy, I'll put it in," Eames said, standing and striding over to the breadbox. With the hand which was now adorned with his new ring he put the crumpet in the toaster, next to the stove. The ring glinted with the dull, rich sheen of brushed gold. The two diamonds winked and sparkled.

"Nice ring," Arthur said after a moment, voice low and soft, a smile and something else in it.

"Yes, isn't it?" Eames held his hand out so as to better show the ring off. "Flamboyant, but I suppose it suits.... Damnedest thing, I found it on your pillow this morning."

"Ah," Arthur said. His ears were pink. He finally cut his gaze to Eames, who cupped Arthur's jaw and leaned in to kiss him, unable to bear looking directly at that vulnerability in his eyes, knowing it was for him.

When they broke, Arthur was just staring at him, and then he _smiled_ , and Eames felt himself turning red. "Oh, eat your omelet, Arthur," he said, and took his crumpet to the table, where Arthur brought him his tea, and rested his sock-clad foot on Eames' bare one as Eames buttered his crumpet and attempted to keep his composure. 

Arthur ate his omelet and reached across the table to take Eames' hand, the one with the ring, and Eames' heart gave a great leap in his chest.

"I need that hand for drinking tea," he said, a bit breathless, jokingly. Arthur squeezed his fingers and slowly released them, and looked incredibly pleased with himself.

"Insufferable," Eames muttered into his tea. He looked up, met Arthur's gaze, and felt absurdly, utterly lovesick.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing an Arthur in glasses, casual clothes, and a parka was an interesting challenge because Joe has said the following about Arthur's characteristic manner of dress and personal appearance and how it relates to the character: _You know, I gotta say when I first started working on Inception, some of the drawings they showed me of their ideas for that character was, uh, sort of schlubby, sort of like, well, he’s the tech guy, he runs the machines, you know, so maybe he should be wearing some sneakers and a plaid shirt et cetera and I was like “No, no, no.” This guy is in charge of making sure everything goes right. The Cobb character that Leonardo DiCaprio played, he’s like the artist and this guy’s like the producer. So, uh, I thought of my friend Jared, who is a theatre producer by day and he’s a very spiffy dresser. And I was like, “No, I want tailored suits and I want to slick back my hair, I want this guy to seem like meticulous, like he pays very close attention to detail.”_ [[text source](http://bennet-7.livejournal.com/92575.html)]
> 
> Thanks to [anatsuno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatsuno/pseuds/anatsuno), Liz, Julia, and Bára for all your help!


End file.
